Rise of the Hunter
by LathTheHunter
Summary: It is the year 2746 of the Third Age, in the far lands of Lindon, Eriador, Middle Earth. War is brewing, omens are rising, and in an isolated village on the slopes of an overlooked mountain, an untold legend is about to be born...
1. Chapter 1

Smoke billowed across the sky, turning the rising sun blood red. The trees creaked and groaned, as if their very heartwood was ablaze. From the village came screams of fear and pain. Running figures were silhouetted against the great funeral pyre that had once been the Marde-Linde - Hall of Song. The lithe shapes of Elves fled from the squat, heavy shapes of Dwarves.

The Dourhands had come at midnight, while the Elves told songs and tales to celebrate Turuhalmë, the Log Drawing. All day, the Elves of Oromarde, in Lindon, west of the Ered Luin, had participated in the activities of the winter festival - a day of mirth and cheer, where games were played amongst the ice and snow. That evening, they had gathered great logs and kindled the Tale-Fire from the embers that had been carefully tended since the previous year, and then it had been time for feasting, and to tell tales and sing songs of the Old Days.

It was in this time of celebration that the Dwarves had crept down from the mountains. From the north they had come, to scout the land and pillage what they could. They dared not reveal themselves to their Longbeard cousins yet, but they were more than ready to slaughter Elves - their agelong enemies. With a terrible cry they had burst in upon the revellers, and death was upon them. "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

Laughing, the Dwarves ran among the buildings, tossing firebrands through windows and hacking down pillars with their axes. The flames consuming the hall now reached the stores of wine beneath, and with a concussive boom, they ignited. The short figures danced with glee.

The corpses of Elves lay strewn across the snow, which shone crimson in the light of the flames and the dawn, and with blood. The few who still lived fled into the trees, crying out in their anguish, and calling for their loved ones. Few received an answer. Yet one Elf - a woman, ran back towards the ruins of her home. "Lathron!" she called.

A faint cry answered hers: "Nana!" - 'Mummy!'

From under a fallen beam, a small hand stretched; a pale face, twisted in terror. Already, flames licked along the twisting wood, drawing closer and closer. The mother wrapped her arms around the end of the beam and strained, but the carved spruce was too heavy. The boy cried out in panic as the flames crept closer. Suddenly, squat shapes appeared through the flames and closed in around the woman. Slowly, she backed against the log, shielding her son. The Dwarves talked amongst themselves in Khuzdul, grinning cruelly and hefting their axes. In reply, the Elf drew a long, curved knife. "Leave us now, or die, traitors."

One Dwarf stepped forward, with broad shoulders and a long, two-handed greataxe. Golden birds - hendrevail - were woven into his hair and beard. "You mistake your situation, she-Elf," he spat. "You are outnumbered, caught between us and the fire, and your son is trapped. Surrender to us and we may spare your life, although your whelp is as good as dead." The boy whimpered and flinched as flames licked the wood by his face.

The Elf hissed in anger. "I would rather die than bow to faithless oath-breakers like you. Tell Skorgrím that he can burn all the villages he wants; the Longbeards will not stand for it, nor for him, and you will bring the wrath of Thrain and Elrond upon yourselves."

The Dwarf smirked. "I was rather hoping you might say that." He gestured to the other two, and they stepped forward.

In a blur, the Elf slashed at her attackers, and they clutched in vain at the blood pouring from their throats. The leader lunged for her, catching her in the side with a heavy, dual-handed blow, and she collapsed, but as she fell, she threw the knife. It sailed through the air and buried itself in the Dwarf's left eye. With a howl, he clapped a hand to his face, dropping his axe. "Your kind will rue this day!" He cursed. "The Dourhands will rule the Ered Luin. Your people's time is drawing to a close, Elf, and they will fear the name of Fírndall before the end!" He staggered off into the coils of smoke and was gone.

The Elf pushed herself to her feet, clutching her bleeding side and staring after him, but a cry of pain brought her back to her senses. The flames were now licking greedily at her son's face, and in vain he tried to shield himself from their heat. With her last effort, the woman raised Fírndall's axe high and brought it crashing down on the beam, before falling to the ground. The wood was cloven in two with barely a splinter, and the boy dragged himself free. His right cheek was raw and blistered from the fire, but he raced to his mother's side. Dimly, she gazed up at him. "Promise me this, Lathron," she whispered, "Run, and don't look back. You're not safe here, none of us are. Find the Refuge of Edhelion, and Talagan Silvertongue. Tell him Skorgrím means to... overthrow the Longbeards. He seeks eternal life. Can you... do that... for me?"

Lathron nodded, tears running down his cheeks. "But you'll follow me, won't you?" He asked. "We'll see each other again, won't we?"

His mother smiled weakly. "Boe... 'i waen. I'll wait for you... on the white shores, and in Valinor we shall... meet again. Guren níniatha... n'i lû n'i a-govenitham." She reached up to touch her son's hair one last time, and then her eyes darkened. Lathron knelt there, tears pouring down his face, and then he fled into the trees as the sun rose into a red sky.

For days, Lathron fled through the forest, heading far up into the icy peaks of the Ered Luin. Hunger and cold were his constant companions, but he had learnt to find food in the wilderness during his life at Oromarde. He searched for nuts and berries to eat, and snared squirrels and mountain hares. Over the coming weeks he grew stronger, but his dreams were haunted by roaring flames, the silhouettes of Dwarves, and his mother's dying face. One day, he caught sight of his face in a mountain spring as he stooped to drink, and recoiled in shock. The right side of his face was raw, red and hideously scarred. From then on, he shied from his own reflection, and made a scarf for himself from the skins of the animals he ate to cover his burns, as well as ward off the bitter cold. Luckily, he was already well equipped for the winter weather, but quickly his furs became matted and torn. Eventually, he made himself a crude bow from yew wood and the gutstrings of hares, fashioned arrows from deadwood, and taught himself to hunt with them.

After a month alone, he stumbled across a party of Dwarves - Durin's folk, heading to their strongholds in the south. He hid from them, remembering the terror of the night of Turuhalmë, but overheard them talking of their destination. They were heading to the building of a magnificent hall, in honour of the newborn grandson of King Thrain of Erebor: Thorin. Such names were strange to the young Elf, but among them was one he recognised; Edhelion. It seemed that the new stronghold was to be built by the ancient elven refuge, for much lore was stored there, and the mountains nearby were rich in precious ores. He knew now where he had to go.

Lathron headed south, a few days behind the Dwarves, for he had to hunt, and was still afraid of them. One night, while he camped beneath a steep overhang, a wild howling echoed through the forest around him. Before long, he heard snuffling and snarling in the undergrowth around him, and the dying embers of his campfire shone from the eyes of a pack of great, white wolves. He picked a branch from the fire and blew it into life, startling the leader, who was stalking towards him, and sending it leaping back. Before long, however, the wolves began to close in again, scenting his fear, and the remains of a grouse he had eaten. He swept the brand back and forth, sending sparks flying to scorch at the wolves' muzzles, but then he remembered the terror of the night the Dourhands had come, and suddenly his head was filled with the screams of his fleeing friends and relatives, and the fire in his hand became the burning Hall of Song. His jaw felt as if it was aflame again. He dropped the brand, screaming and flailing wildly at invisible enemies. Then a sharp pain in his leg dragged him back to reality; a wolf had grabbed him in its jaws. He drummed his fists on its skull and it backed off, dazed, leaving him time to draw his bow and fire. The arrow sprouted from its temple and it fell, twitching. The other wolves backed away, and he fired arrow after arrow into the darkness until they fled. He spent the rest of the night in a shivering heap, sobbing until the sunrise.

When Lathron tried to walk, his leg shook and collapsed under him. He bandaged it crudely, using strips torn from his jerkin, and broke a branch to use as a crutch. With his leg in such a poor condition, he was unable to hunt, and once again relied on snares, and nuts and roots, but at that altitude, both prey and plants were scarce.

It was another week before Lathron reached the Vale of Thrain. By that time, his wound had begun to fester, and he was unable to place any weight on his injured leg. To the north of the valley, great caverns were being hewn from the rock by Thrain's builders, and the cliffs had been transformed into a magnificent façade, but none of this mattered to Lathron. His sole interest was the elegant spires of Edhelion, perched atop the west side of the valley. Exhausted, he limped down into the valley, barely aware of the Dwarf builders who stared as he passed and muttered in shock. Indeed, to them, he looked like a wild thing, with long, matted hair, torn clothes and a pale, drawn face. His ears and the fingers of his left hand were beginning to succumb to frostbite, and the rags binding his injured leg were caked in dried blood and pus. It was when one of the Dwarves approached Lathron that he first noticed his surroundings, and he lashed out in blind panic at his perceived attackers. "Get away from me!" he tried to scream, but his voice was hoarse from disuse. His legs collapsed under him and he lost consciousness.

* * *

Hi, I hope you liked the first chapter, and the appropriate feels were awakened (how melodramatic).

This is my first fanfic, so please be nice :), but (constructive) criticism would be greatly appreciated too. Unfortunately, I cannot promise regular updates, for the night is dark and full of procrastinators. The story will be loosely based on the Lord of the Rings and LOtrO Epic Questline. Although, obviously, original characters will take part, I do not plan on making this yet another '10th Walker' story (I can hear your sigh of relief I'm sure). If you do happen to have written a 10th Walker story, please don't be offended - I'm sure it's very well written - it's just for me, the concept has been done to death.

More will follow, I promise. I have the first 6 chapters on the go, and a couple more from later on. I have not finished the LOTRO epic questline by a long way, so I may either have to wait for ages if/when I catch up with myself/run out of Turbine Points (Should be a while, luckily. Writing is slower than questing.) or I may digress from it at a later point. I will follow neither that or the original story to a T, so there should be at least some originality. Yay.

Most of the Elvish I will use will be Sindarin. It may be translated or untranslated, depending on how important it is to the story. Quenya will be used more rarely, as Lathron is an uncultured swine, so will generally be marked as such. I am also an uncultured swine, so expect me to butcher the grammar. Luckily, almost everyone except Tolkien is also a porcine ungulate with no concept of civil etiquette, and so you probably, hopefully, won't notice.

Expect sporadic references to various other fandoms. Gold stars (Or blood ones. Spoilers...) to whoever can spot them.

Lathron Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

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Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarities to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


	2. Chapter 2

Lathron awoke in a soft bed of white sheets, with sunlight streaming through the window. A tall, thin Elf man sat by his bedside, with flowing brown hair and a long, green robe. Like all Elves, he gave the impression of youth, but his eyes showed great age and wisdom. He smiled when he saw Lathron awake, but the boy flinched from him instinctively.

"Don't worry," the man reassured him, "you're safe now. I am Talagan Silvertongue."

"Where am I?" Lathron asked shakily.

"The refuge of Edhelion. The Longbeards found you wandering in the vale three days ago, and brought you straight to us. We are well learned in the arts of healing here, for we dedicate our lives to the study of the many tomes that have been amassed here over the years, but I must admit I have rarely seen anyone in as poor a condition as you were. Are you ready to tell me what happened?"

Slowly, the events of the past few months emerged inside Lathron's mind, and he began to tell Talagan of the Dourhands' attack on Oromarde. His voice broke as he spoke of his mother's last moments, but he carried on, describing the lonely months he'd spent travelling through the wilderness in search of Edhelion.

After Lathron had finished his tale, Talagan sat in silence for a while, staring thoughtfully at the floor. Finally he looked up at Lathron again. "You did well in coming to us. Your tale is indeed disturbing. I dislike the sound of this Skorgrím Dourhand greatly, and I wish there was something I could do to placate your loss. Until now, the Dourhands were a very minor Dwarf family," he mused. "Descendants of the Petty-Dwarves if I remember correctly. Their sudden warmongering is troubling."

He suddenly seemed to notice Lathron again. "My apologies, I was thinking aloud. You shall remain here for now, at least, until you are fully healed. Stay there until you feel strong enough to move. I'll have someone send food and water; you must be famished."

Talagan returned often over the following week, bringing with him news of the outside world. In return, Lathron told him of his life in Oromarde - of playing with his friends, exploring the woods and swimming in the river, the roaring fires in the Hall of Song on winter's nights. He told of how his father had been grievously wounded when he was still a baby, and passed over the sea, but his mother had remained to bring up their child. As he talked, he found it easier to get over the loss, and he healed gradually in body and spirit. Finally, he was able to stand, and began to walk, shakily at first, around the refuge. He explored the winding passages thoroughly, and discovered shelves after shelves of ancient books and scrolls. He also met with the other Elves at the refuge, of which there were few, and none who had lived there for as long as Talagan. Usually, he discovered, Elves visited Edhelion searching for ancient knowledge or wisdom, and never stayed long. Occasionally, Dwarves or Men visited the refuge as well, but there were only five Elves who had lived there for any length of time. They were the Lore-Keepers, and Talagan was the most learned among them.

Eventually, Lathron ventured outside, and after that he often sat reading in the gardens, looking across the Vale of Thrain to where the sun set behind the mountains. One thing never healed, though; the scars on his face remained even when the pain in his leg had long since faded. "Will they ever go?" he asked Talagan one day.

"They are beyond my skill to heal," replied the loremaster. "You will bear them forever, as a reminder of your past life, and your mother's sacrifice. You should be proud of them." Despite Talagan's words, Lathron couldn't bear to look at his reflection, and turned his face away when others spoke to him. An Elf at the refuge made him a new scarf, and from then on he wore it whenever he left his room. He could tell Talagan disapproved, but the old Elves never pressed the matter.

Two months after his arrival at Edhellion, Talagan took Lathron into the forest above the refuge. He was silent as they toiled up a steep, winding stair carved into the mountain slopes. It was spring, so the snow was melting from the trees, and the gullies sang with the trickle of meltwater. Birds sang among the rocks - pipits and thrushes - and Lathron saw an eagle soar overhead. Finally, they emerged from a narrow gully between two large boulders onto a high overhang. Far below them, the valley was spread out like a painting. The refuge nestled among the trees and rocks, and below that, the diggings of the Dwarves were visible. Lathron gazed out over this vista in wonder, before the sound of Talagan clearing his throat caught his attention.

"Your parents named you Lathron," he stated. "Do you know what that means in the Common Tongue?"

"Listener." replied the boy.

"Precisely. Your experiences have shown you to have the makings of a great woodsman - a hunter to rival the Elves of Greenwood the Great in skill. Do you know what the most important attribute is for a hunter?"

Lathron shook his head.

"He must be a listener. If you are willing, I will teach you to be a hunter - a listener. Would you like that?"

Lathron thought of his life in Oromarde, what seemed like a lifetime ago. He remembered his months in the wilderness, and the sneering face of Fírndall, still out there somewhere. Someday, he would find his mother's killer again, and when that time came, he wanted to be ready. Then, he looked out across the Vale of Thrain. Overhead, the eagle's piercing cry echoed down to him, touching his very being. In his heart, he felt a sense of purpose, and for the first time in months, he smiled fully, and nodded. "Yes. Yes I would. I will be a hunter."

* * *

Hello again.

Sorry if this chapter is a bit short. I write on an iPod mostly so it's hard to judge length. Those following will be longer and much more exciting, and probably less full of blatant nods to Michelle Paver. (There's the fandom references I was talking about.)

Please review, like, dislike, post over bedroom walls etc. I hope to establish a cult of loyal and devoted readers who will aid me in bringing about the zombie apocalypse...

Discount that last.

Lathron Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

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Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarities to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


	3. Chapter 3

The goat scraped at the frozen ground, searching for lichens and mosses that had survived the harsh winter frosts. Every now and then, the creature lifted its head, unconcernedly scanning the trees, but at this time of year, most hunters were hibernating, or had retreated to the lowlands in search of more forgiving climates.

Most hunters.

A noise like a breath of air, and the goat folded its legs and slowly slumped to the floor, a long shaft of wood quivering in its flank. Silently, a figure darted out of the undergrowth to crouch beside the fallen prey. Its clothes were grey, blending perfectly with the dappled shadows of the forest. Muttering softly, the figure drew a long curved knife and gently buried it in the goat's breast, stilling its feebly kicking legs.

"Admirably executed," called Talagan, emerging from a stand of pines and striding towards the hunter. "You have come far."

Lathron rose, pushing back his hood to face his mentor. Indeed, he had changed much over the past year. Gone was the young, frightened child who had arrived half-dead at Edhelion. His face was lean and stern, so that he looked older than his eleven years. He had grown almost a foot, and beneath his thick, winter clothes, his limbs were lithe and strong. His hair was medium length - darker than it had been - and swept out of his eyes, but he still wore a scarf over his face. In the gap between them, his eyes were emerald green.

"Thank you master," he replied, bowing low. "Do you find me ready?"

"I find you more than ready," Talagan smiled. "You have demonstrated great skill in the hunt. You are highly proficient with the bow, and strike swift and true. Your woodcraft is exemplary. I wouldn't be surprised if you were a match for the Elves of Greenwood the Great themselves, and yet you show respect for the prey. That is good. That is a hunter's most important skill. When you take a life, no matter how desperate the need or how clean the kill, you are sending a soul from the world, and you must mourn, for it is a sorrowful moment."

Lathron looked puzzled. "Surely there are some prey, some foes, which a hunter should not mourn for? What about predators - bears or wolves?"

"Ah, but to a hunter, all things are prey, never forget that. The hunter stalks unseen by all unless he chooses, and that gives him great power, for who can defend against that which they cannot see? In the tales and songs, it is the great warriors or captains who receive the renown for their deeds in battle, but even the mightiest champion may be brought low by a stray arrow. The strongest captain is helpless against a knife in the dark. It is the hunters, the rangers, those overlooked in the shadows and on the sidelines, who win wars." His face grew very stern as he looked down at Lathron. "Never forget - I have given you power over other living things. Not just over beasts but over other peoples. Never abuse that power, and when you find your prey at your mercy, spare him a thought, for against you he is weak and pitiful."

A face swam in Lathron's vision. A sneering face framed by golden hawks and searing flames. 'There is one whom I will never pity,' he told himself. 'When the time comes, I will show him no mercy.' But out loud, he replied "Of course, master. I shall remember."

"That is well," replied Talagan. "Now, let us carry this goat back to the refuge. Night draws closer, but we will feast well this evening."

They trudged in silence through the frozen forest. Slowly, the last rays of sunlight faded behind the trees, and the shadows lengthened. Far above, the evenstar appeared - Eärendil, the mariner, ferrying the light of the silmaril across the heavens. Talagan murmured at the sight, as he did every night. "May the light of the Valar guide and protect us."

But then he stopped, staring at another star appearing in the sky. "That is not a good sign," he muttered.

"What is it?" asked Lathron, staring at the new star with trepidation. It hung small and red in the eastern sky, an easy sight to miss for the untrained eye.

"It is Gil Agarwen - the Blood Star," replied Talagan, quickening his pace. "It is an evil omen, of dark deeds, and blood to be spilt. It has not been seen in Middle Earth for a long count of years. That it should appear now is... disturbing."

"But what does it mean?" persisted Lathron. "What's going to happen? When was the last time it appeared?"

"'Twas over four thousand years ago, replied Talagan, quickening his pace. I need not tell you what events occurred at that time."

Lathron shuddered in sudden fear. He looked again at the star, glaring down like a red eye...

"Come, we must hurry," called Talagan from ahead. The young hunter hurried after him, suddenly shivering in his thick winter cloak.

* * *

Three others were watching the sky that night. Three others saw the red star appear, and three others recognised its fateful meaning.

In the far-off valley of Imladris, a tall man with dark hair looked up from his scrolls to see the star hanging like a drop of blood, and shook his head wearily.

Further still, in the shining city of Caras Galadhon, a fair woman in robes of white glimpsed the star reflected in her mirror. A tear fell into the basin, sending ripples across the surface of the water.

And farthest of all, atop the high pinnacle of a great black tower, an old man, dressed all in grey, stood alone. He made no movement, no sign at all that he had seen the star, but the eyes which reflected the glow of his pipe gleamed suddenly. Slowly, he drew a long breath, and released a cloud of smoke. It twisted in front of him, resolving itself into the form of a crumbling fortress, beneath which was a ring, or perhaps an eye. He nodded once, and blew the smoke away into the night.

* * *

Dun dun duuuun.

The plot thickens. The length of the chapters doesn't. Trust me though, when I start writing combat I find it hard to stop. Things get exciting soon. (Spoilers... There goes another reference. Teehee.)

Lathron Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

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Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarities to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


	4. Chapter 4

"How many weeks?"

"Two, my lord. The Longbeards were quite certain. Skorgrím merely needs to gather his allies in the west, and he will be ready."

Talagan paced up and down his study. Lathron hung back by the door. Never had he seen his master so agitated.

"Why does Skorgrím feel the need to attack our sacred halls?" Talagan growled. "He has strength enough to satisfy himself, surely? What could our books and lore hold that could interest him?"

"They say he is quite mad," replied the messenger, an Elf from the town of Duillond to the south. "He wishes to stamp out all Elves in the Ered Luin - he sees us as invaders, unfit to live in these lands." Suddenly, his voice dropped to a whisper. "It is said he seeks the relics of the Bloodhand."

At these words Talagan froze. His face became as pale as ice, and his lips thinned to little more than a flat line. "How do you know of this?" he whispered, and his voice was terrible. "Speak quickly, and I may yet allow you to leave this place."

Lathron was shocked, and the messenger cowered slightly where he stood. "I was told to bring these tidings by Lord Dorongúr Whitethorn," he stammered. "I know not what they mean."

"Talagan turned to face the wall, clasping his hands to the sides of his head. "You may go," he commanded, and the messenger fled. Silently, Lathron made to leave as well, but...

"No, you stay here."

"For several long minutes Lathron waited on his master in silence. Finally Talagan asked him, "Did the Dourhands mention aught of this plan when they attacked your village?"

Lathron shuddered, loath to recall the memories of that terrible night. "They mentioned that Skorgrím planned to overthrow the Longbeards, and that he sought eternal life."

Talagan nodded. "You said as much upon your arrival. I must admit, at the time I though little of it - I had never heard of this Skorgrím, and the Dourhands were a minor family of Dwarves, long without any influence or power among their people. Now, however..." He began to pace again. "How could Skorgrím know of the relics, when he has never visited this refuge, and is estranged from the rest of his kin? They are never spoken of; it is a vow many took long ago. Even a spy could not discover them. And even if he obtained them, how could he hope to use them? Unless... But no. Surely such a thing is impossible."

"Please could you tell me what is going on!" implored Lathron.

Talagan sensed the frustration in his voice and sighed. "Very well, but first, you must understand that until now I was sworn to secrecy in this matter. I am charged to guard this knowledge with my life - that is the true reason I was placed here as Chief Loremaster. Until that messenger told me otherwise, I believed there were only seven others living in the world, apart from myself, who knew of the existence of the relics, and of them, only one dwelt in the Ered Luin - Dorongúr Whitethorn, the master of Duillond. You must not speak of this to any other without my permission. Promise me this now."

"I promise," replied Lathron solemnly"

"Good. Now, in this library are hidden many things are best kept out of common knowledge. I will not speak of all of them, but the matter at hand concerns the relics of Ivar the Bloodhand. Do you know who the Gaunt Lords were?"

Lathron shook his head.

"I should hope not. Now, however, it is time you knew. They were necromancers, in service to the Witch King of Angmar, and through him, the Enemy, back when Angmar and the Black Land first rose to power. There were many, and they were powerful, raising armies of wights to do their bidding, but five of them were stronger and more terrible than the others. One of these was Ivar the Bloodhand, Minion of War, and he led the armies of the Witch King against the realm of Arnor. When the Witch King was defeated, he was destroyed and buried deep within the High Fells of Rhudaur, along with his masters the Ringwraiths, but his right hand, wearing his ring, was kept by the men of Arnor, lest he reawaken and try to regain his full strength. They gave them to us for safekeeping, and we hid them here, far away from the rest of the world and the last place any would look. It is not known what power the relics might bestow upon one, but Skorgrím seems to believe they will grant him eternal life. That any person should seek to use such evil relics for such a purpose is unthinkable, but for one as violent as Skorgrím? The thought is terrifying."

"What is to be done?" asked Lathron.

"I have sent for reinforcements. Dorongúr and the Elves of Duillond and Celondim are coming to our aid, and word has been sent to Elrond of Rivendell. The Dwarves," he spat, "do not wish to risk open war against their own kind. They'll get it soon enough, whether they wish it or no, if Skorgrím has his way."

The next three weeks were spent in a frenzy of preparation. Messengers were sent back and forth between Edhelion and Duillond several times a week. In addition to Lathron's hunting lessons, Talagan began to teach him the rudiments of swordsmanship. "These should be about your size," he said during their first lesson, handing Lathron a matched pair of slim, bronze blades. They were simple in shape, but of good quality. Lathron took to them at once, practicing several hours a day in the courtyard against various Elves in the refuge.

After one week, a clear horn ringing from the valley heralded the arrival of the reinforcements from the south. There was much joy at the sound, but when the arriving Elves crested the ridge, those in the refuge were dismayed - barely a hundred had arrived, and of these, few appeared to be fully trained soldiers. Clearly, the havens to the south were worried about their own safety.

At the head of the column rode a tall, brown haired Elf astride a grey horse. He was younger than Talagan, but carried an unmistakeable air of authority. When he had dismounted, Talagan strode over to him and they embraced warmly.

"Dorongúr, it has been too long!" Talagan exclaimed. "Would that the circumstances were more favourable. Forgive me, but I must confess we had hoped for more reinforcements."

Dorongúr looked at him gravely. "Messages arrived from the Dourhands at the same time yours did: threats, warning us that if we did not leave, the havens would be sacked. I dared not risk the lives of my people, or abandon our sacred harbours, so alas, I can only spare what you see before you." He caught sight of Lathron and raised his eyebrows. "What is this? You have a child in your midst. Surely he is not safe here, with an attack imminent?"

"Lathron's home village of Oromarde was sacked by the Dourhands," Talagan explained. "He is my ward for the time being. I have been teaching him to defend himself and he is proving more than capable."

"Nevertheless, I hope you will keep him out of harm's way," warned Dorongúr. "It would not do to endanger innocent lives."

"I can fight!" protested Lathron, showing the hilts of his swords to Dorongúr.

The older Elf chuckled. "No doubt, but the Dourhands are vicious and strong. It would be a great comfort to everyone if you remained inside during the battle."

Lathron's face reddened. He would have retaliated, but Talagan gave a warning shake of his head and he retreated, abashed.

"Come, Dorongúr," Talagan said, "we have much to talk about." The two strode off into the refuge, leaving Lathron alone outside. He stared angrily after them, before going off to practice his swordplay again.

After the second week, Lathron's swordsmanship had improved drastically. He could now hold his own against most of the older Elves, although they seemed to think his enthusiasm amusing; no-one truly expected him to fight in the oncoming battle. Lathron was determined to prove them wrong.

Dorongúr and Talagan spent most of their time shut in Talagan's study, formulating plans and discussing the Dourhands' sudden rise to power, so Lathron wandered among the gardens, talking to the new arrivals from Celondim and Duillond. From them, he discovered much about the rest of the Ered Luin - he had only ever lived high in the snowy peaks, but the soldiers told him of woods of aspen and cherry - pink in the spring, emerald in the summer and golden in the autumn. He heard tales of the rosy spires of Duillond, perched high above the mouth of the river Lhûn as it swept past towards Mithlond - the legendary Grey Havens. Some of the Elves had even travelled further across Middle Earth, and enraptured him with tales of the verdant, cosy Shire, the rolling hills of the Lone Lands and North Downs, and the soaring pinnacles of the Misty Mountains far away. Their stories filled Lathron with a hunger for exploration and he vowed that soon, he would visit all these places and more.

It was on the fifth day of the second week that his chance finally arrived, although he did not know it at the time.

A lone horse was seen galloping at breakneck speed through the Vale of Thrain. Not long after, they heard its hooves clattering up the winding road. It crested the ridge, and they saw it was ridden by a tall, dark-haired Elf man in silver travelling robes. He skidded to a halt in front of the doors, where a large crowd had assembled. Talagan stepped forward and bowed. "My Lord Elrond, I am glad that you have come in these troubled times."

"You will not be glad hereafter," warned Elrond, dismounting. His horse's flanks were lathered and heaving with exertion. "The enemy is nearly at your gates. They entered the Vale this morning, and will be here by tomorrow morning at the latest." He strode into the refuge, wiping sweat from his brow. "Can we talk over a meal? I have ridden almost non-stop from Imladris."

A hasty meal was prepared for Elrond, Dorongúr and Talagan. Lathron laid bread on the table, then made to leave, but Elrond called him back. "No, stay, child. Pour yourself a drink. Talagan has told me much about you, but I would hear your story for myself."

Lathron seated himself and began telling his tale, as he had once before to Talagan, except this time he included his stay in Edhelion and his lessons in becoming a hunter. Dorongúr expressed surprise at several times during the story, but Elrond was more reserved, though occasionally he would lift an eyebrow. When Lathron had finished, he said, "That is quite a tale. You should be proud; there are not many Elves, or even members of other races, who could have survived and accomplished what you have at your age. I too, witnessed the rising of the Gil-Agarwen, and I fear its meaning is all too clear; the enemy is stirring. This rogue Dwarf-chieftain Skorgrím is but a smattering of droplets before the storm. If he intends to awaken the power of the Bloodhand, as I fear..."

"But surely such a thing is impossible!" Dorongúr interrupted. "Only a powerful necromancer could hope to glean power from such relics, and Skorgrím, as you say, is a minor chieftain of a minor family. How could such a Dwarf - especially a Dwarf - possess such magics?"

"I do not know," replied Talagan. "Of us here, I am the one who knows the relics best, and I have never been able to determine how one might activate them. One can only assume that Skorgrím has come into possession of other artefacts which provide him with a means to draw power from the relics. Of course, there is the other possibility," here he looked darkly at Elrond, "that he might have gleaned information directly from..."

"Pray, do not speak of such things here," interrupted Dorongúr. Talagan gave him a stern look, but fell silent. Dorongúr looked down at the table, abashed, and Lathron looked quizzically at Talagan, trying to guess what he had been about to say. Information from... what? Or whom?

"Theories aside, what is our battle strategy?" asked Elrond, providing a welcome relief to the silence.

"My soldiers will guard the main gates," Dorongúr replied. "It would also be wise to position a second force at the north entrance, in case the Dwarves circle behind us. I shall position archers on the roofs to fire over the walls and down into the courtyard. If necessary, we can retreat to the inner keep and hold out there until further reinforcements arrive, but I do not expect it to come to that."

"What of my loremasters?" Talagan asked. "They will be of some use if the library itself is breached, and in tending to the wounded. I propose setting up a temporary infirmary inside the inner courtyard. I shall remain in the Central Library to guard the relics should all else fail."

"An excellent idea," Elrond agreed. Then he turned to Lathron. "And what do you plan to do?"

Lathron was taken aback. "I shall... aid Master Talagan in his defence of the library?"

"That is good," Elrond nodded. He finished his wine and rose. "Come, let us rest. Tomorrow shall be a long day."

That night, Lathron could not sleep. His mind was filled once again with the faces of Dwarves, of Fírndall's final words. He imagined what Skorgrím would look like. In his mind's eye, he pictured a bulky, hook-nosed Dwarf with wild black hair and eyes, clad in gold. He rose and headed for the courtyard, intending to practice his swordplay, but as he walked past Talagan's chambers, he heard voices coming from inside. Cautiously, he pressed his ear to the door.

"...Sure what you're getting at here," Dorongúr was saying irritatedly. "He's just a boy in troubling circumstances. He's emotionally traumatised - he never takes off that mask... scarf... thing of his, and he's constantly sparring. It's as if he feels obliged to kill Fírndall or Skorgrím personally, but if he does try, they'll butcher him. I really don't see what's so special about him. He's a danger to himself, and others."

"You don't know him as I do, Dorongûr," Talagan replied. "The boy shoots a bow like he was born with one in his hand. He's devastatingly intelligent, and a quick learner. Do you realise that before last week he'd never held a sword? Now look at him! He can hold his own against many of the adult Elves in the refuge - Elves tens, if not hundreds of years his seniors."

"This may be true," came Elrond's voice, "but there is more that I have seen, that you have not. It is no mere chance that he witnessed the rising of the Gil-Agarwen. Only two others besides ourselves and Lathron saw the event, and understood its full meaning - Mithrandir and Galadriel. He is among great company indeed if the Valar saw fit to bestow that information upon him. I sense that in the years to come, his fate will be more closely linked to that of Middle Earth than any of us can guess."

Lathron had heard enough. He crept back to his room, heart swelling with pride at Talagan's description of him. Elrond's words, also, echoed in his mind. 'Among great company indeed... fate closely linked to that of Middle Earth'. Sleep came easily this time, and he drifted off with a smile on his face.

* * *

Hello again. Sorry if this was a bit boring, but it was necessary, character developing, expositional and hopefully you now have a few burning questions. The next chapter is an exciting one. Promise. Unfortunately, you'll have to wait for it, 'cause I'm going on holiday for a couple of weeks. I'm such a Troll *ba-dum tish*. Gettit? LotR? Trolls? Oh, never mind... I'll try and get many writings done while I'm away, bear with.

It's nice to see some of you sticking with it, it's great motivation for me, thanks. Please review and constructively criticize, unless you think it's already the best story there can be (I know, I am pretty great ;) )

See ya soon, with more hunter-y action.

Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

* * *

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarities to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


	5. Chapter 5

Shouts shook Lathron from his dreams. Suddenly he was wide awake, blinking in the morning sunlight. The shadows of people ran back and forth past his window. He dressed quickly, and was just strapping on his quiver and sword belt when one of the loremasters burst in.

"Good, you are awake," he panted when he saw Lathron. "Lord Talagan requests your presence immediately in the central library.

Lathron arrived in front of the ornate, spruce wood doors to the central library and knocked tentatively. He had never been allowed in here before, and when he had asked why, Talagan had said that great power resided inside. Now, despite himself, a feeling of excitement filled him. The doors swung open and he stepped through.

The central library consisted of two large, octagonal rooms connected by a short passage. In the far room, he could see Talagan, Dorongúr and Elrond gathered around an alcove, but no-one else was present, not even doormen. He wondered, then, how the doors had opened at his touch. Talagan had spoken truly when he said great power resided inside here.

The three men looked up at his approach. "Ah, good," Elrond said upon seeing him. "You are just in time; Skorgrím is even now marching up towards Edhelion. Dorongúr and I must leave to lead the defense. You are to remain in here with Talagan, to guard the relics."

"But, I thought I would be guarding the library from outside!" protested Lathron. "I want to fight!"

"No, you do not," Dorongúr insisted. Lathron was surprised at the gentleness in his voice. "You may have seen conflict, and you may have hunted animals, but it is quite another thing to fight in that conflict, and kill people. I have a son, and I understand the need for revenge, so I know how you feel, but you must trust me: battle is not something to be taken lightly. When the Dourhands arrive you will understand. I am sorry if I appear patronising or rude, but you must trust me; we all want only what's best for you. Do you understand?"

Reluctantly, Lathron nodded. It appeared he had underestimated Dorongúr. "Very well, I'll stay here."

Outside, a deep horn sounded, and was answered by a second, higher note. Elrond raced for the door, followed by Dorongúr. "Skorgrím is here!" He cried. Pul-belain beria-ammen pân!" - 'May the Valar protect us all!' With that, he was gone.

There was silence in the library for a while after that, punctuated only by faint shouts that drifted in from outside. Lathron began to fidget nervously, eying the doors as if they might burst open at any moment.

"You may read some of the books if you want," suggested Talagan. "It'll help clear your mind."

Lathron tried, picking a book at random off the shelf, but the text was faint, and largely written in Quenya - an ancient dialect of it in fact - so incomprehensible to him.

"Where are the relics?" he asked suddenly, placing the book back on the shelf.

"They are within the wall behind me," Talagan answered. "There is a secret compartment."

"Can I see them?"

"No."

"But I'm protecting them. I ought to know what it is I might die for."

"You're not going to die," Talagan comforted.

"Then why is everyone so worried?"

Talagan did not answer. Lathron sighed and began swinging one of his swords in lazy arcs.

"You would not want to see them," continued Talagan eventually. "They are not a pleasant sight."

"Neither was my mother's death," snapped Lathron. "Neither was Fírndall when the knife went through his eye. Neither is my face."

"Very well," Talagan relented, "you may see the relics, but do not touch them. In fact, stay behind me."

He turned around and plucked an unassuming book from the shelf. There was a click, and a section slid backwards and down to reveal a glass cabinet behind. Lathron craned his neck to see inside. On a pile of linen strips, which were stained a dark red-brown, lay a cadaverous hand. Its grey skin was stained a blotchy red with blood and its nails were elongated, with crusts of dried blood underneath. Beside it, in a crystal box, lay an iron ring, in which was set a blood red gemstone. Tengwar runes were etched into it, but the words they spelt were harsh and unknown to Lathron - Black Speech. He shuddered at the sight.

"I told you it wasn't pleasant," admonished Talagan, pressing a button to replace the bookshelf, "but at least now your curiosity is satisfied. Learn to control it, or you might find yourself in more dangerous situations than this."

"This is pretty dangerous," Lathron pointed out. "We're under attack."

"And you have not been hurt yet, have you?" replied Talagan. "The battle does not seem to be going ill."

At that moment, there was a crash, and the ground shuddered. Talagan strode to the door. "How fares the battle?" he cried.

One of Dorongúr's militia came running up. His armour and face were smeared with blood. "They have sent a party behind us and are assailing the Northern Gate! I don't know what manner of weaponry they are using, but it sounds destructive.

At that moment, Elrond appeared, his face lined with worry. "Talagan, we are being driven back. We need your assistance. The North Gate is undefended."

Talagan looked back towards the relics' cabinet, then around at the stacks of ancient tomes. "I am loath to leave this place," he admitted. "Should the Dourhands slip past unnoticed, it would not do for me to leave my post."

Lathron seized his chance. "Let me go, Master," he suggested. "I will help Lord Elrond."

Talagan raised a stern eyebrow at him. "Very well. If Lord Elrond allows it. Is our need great enough?"

"Unfortunately, yes," admitted Elrond. "Any aid would be a great boon to the defense. Come, Lathron." He set off down the corridor at a run. Lathron followed, excitement building in his chest. They left the Sanctuary and crossed over the bridge into the Inner Courtyard.

Elrond's field hospital was facing problems - with only a handful of healers, there were many wounded men and women lying untreated. Beyond the Inner Wall, the sounds of battle still raged. Dorongúr was standing by a tree, clutching a bandaged arm. His face brightened at Elrond's approach, then quickly fell again. "Talagan will not come?" he asked.

"Nay, I told you he would not. He has tended this place too long to leave it willingly, but he has allowed Lathron to come in his place."

Dorongúr looked concerned, but said, "If he feels the boy is ready, then who am I to argue. Very well, Lathron, you have your chance. Let us away to the North Gate."

"I must tend to the wounded I am afraid," replied Elrond. "I will join you when I can."

Lathron followed Dorongúr across the courtyard to the large, wrought-iron gates that made up the entrance. They had been barred shut, and a number of Elves waited on the inside, shooting through the bars at the corner of a building to their right. Lathron saw the shadows of Dwarves lurking behind it.

"Come, let us drive these faithless filth back!" roared Dorongúr, pushing through the throng to unbar the gates. At the sound of the squealing metal, the Dwarves leapt out from behind the corner, waving their axes and bellowing. The Elves rushed to greet them. Lathron froze for a few moments, then the cry of an Elf as an axe was buried in her arm wrenched him back to his senses. Furiously, he shot at the assailant, and the Dwarf fell transfixed by the arrow between his eyes. Another two Dwarves peeled away from the melee towards him, cruel snarls on their faces. Lathron's hands shook, there was blood everywhere, he couldn't nock another arrow, the Dwarves drew closer...

Swords sprouted from their chests with twin crunches and they keeled over forwards. Dorongúr stood behind them, grimacing. "You'll need to do better than that," he called. "Don't think, just shoot. You'll have time for thought later."

Lathron nodded numbly and followed the remaining Elves round to the north. In the outer wall was set the North Gate - solid pine wood barred with bronze. It was dented inwards in the centre and in the gap between the gates Lathron saw a large shape moving. Then the gates shuddered again under a heavy blow. With a splintering crash, the lock flew inward, replaced by a heavy stone maul. The doors were kicked open with such force that they bounced off the wall. Behind them stood a monstrous creature - grey skinned and white furred, it stood ten feet tall on its two toeless feet. Its eyes were small and far apart on its wide, flat face, and its nostrils were set high on its forehead. From its brow sprouted two spiraling horns. It reared up and bellowed, straining against the chains which its Dwarf handlers clutched in vain.

"They have a Snow Troll!" called Dorongúr, to no-one in particular.

The Troll lumbered towards them, dragging its handlers behind it like toys and flailing madly with its maul. The Elves scattered before it and it barrelled through them. As it swung slowly round for a second charge, the defenders shot a volley of arrows into its back. Many bounced off and those that stuck didn't even draw blood. The Troll bellowed in rage and sent two Elves flying. They hit the wall with sickening cracks and fell broken at its foot. Those remaining retreated fast.

At the sight of his fallen comrades, something stirred inside Lathron. He fought down his primal urge to run and hide, and instead raised his bow. He sighted down the shaft as the Troll growled at Dorongúr, aiming at its piggy left eye. The arrow seemed to fly in slow motion, and buried itself deep in the Troll's eye socket.

The Troll spasmed in pain, tossing the maul into a building which collapsed to rubble. It tore the arrow, and its eye, out, prompting Lathron to vomit across the flagstones. Dorongúr leapt forwards, hacking at the troll's legs, but it seemed inevitable that the beast would crush him, until...

"Begone, spawn of Morgoth!"

Elrond strode into view, his arms spread wide, wielding a sword and staff. "A Elbereth! Edhellen crist!" His robes shone with a blinding white light, and the Troll cowered to the floor at his approach. The Elf Lord drove his sword into its chin and it collapsed, dead. Around it, its handlers had been crushed or shaken to death by their charge's movements, but there was no time for victory.

"Hurry!" Elrond cried, already sprinting back towards the Inner Gate. "Skorgrím broke through while we were distracted. He is facing Talagan outside the Sanctuary!"

Lathron and Dorongúr raced after him, through the Courtyard and back up the steps to the bridge. At the top, they skidded to a halt - Talagan stood alone before the doors to the Sanctuary, under the overhanging cliff, facing down Skorgrím and two of his lieutenants.

The Dourhand Lord was stocky and muscular, encased entirely in red armour. His helm had two tall horns, and completely covered his face with its mask-like face guard, so only his grey-black beard and mane could be seen. His war hammer was stained a deeper red with the blood of fallen Elves.

"Talagan!" Lathron shouted. His master looked up, a pained expression on his face. "Stay back!" He shouted.

Skorgrím laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh. His eyes glittered black behind his mask. "Yes, protect your friends. They cannot save you anyway. Hand me the relics and I shall spare their lives after I have killed you."

Suddenly, Lathron noticed that Talagan was holding the relics aloft. The others had noticed them too. "What is he doing?" Elrond whispered.

Skorgrím drew closer, and Talagan lashed out with his staff. "Stay back, or I swear by the Valar you shall not take another step!"

Skorgrím growled and hefted his hammer. "I do not wish to toy with you. My master requires his relics back. Give them to me and spare yourself a great deal of torment."

At these words Talagan nodded, as if a suspicion had been confirmed. "Very well," he sighed. "Come and take them."

Lathron was horror struck. "No!" he cried. Even Elrond was taken aback. Dorongúr made to race across the bridge, but Talagan shot him a warning glance. Skorgrím, on the other hand, stepped forward. "Good. My master will reward you greatly." He made to take the relics, but Talagan still held them aloft. "Is this some kind of trick?" He snarled, and made to swing his hammer.

Several things happened very fast then. The three on the bridge sprang forward. At the same time, Lathron saw that Talagan had slipped Ivar's ring onto his own finger. He held the severed hand and his staff aloft and cried in a strange tongue. Lathron screamed. Dorongúr yelled, "Talagan, no!" There was a crack of thunder, and the cliff and tower above the entrance collapsed.

In the final moment, Talagan fixed eyes with Lathron and smiled warmly. "Be safe," he said, and then he and the Dwarves were buried beneath a curtain of rock. The bridge was shorn neatly in two as the entire cliff face crumbled into the void.

From far below came Skorgrím's anguished cry: "This is not the end!"

A crash of stone.

Silence.

The onlookers stood in appalled silence, staring at the drifting clouds of dust that blanketed the Sanctuary like a funeral shroud. Tears pricked Lathron's eyes. Angrily he dashed them away. He turned and began to walk back down the stairs, trying to hide them. His mind refused to accept that Talagan was dead.

Elrond reached out to touch his shoulder. "Lathron."

"Get away!" he shouted, slipping out from Elrond's grip and racing down the stairs. Already a crowd was gathering at their base but he pushed his way through them, fleeing through the courtyard, past the remains of the Troll and up into the forest. He took the same track that Talagan had led him up, what seemed like a lifetime ago. The sun was shining over the valley, and its reflection off the snow was blinding. The birds were singing as if nothing had changed. Somehow, that drove the fact home - Talagan was dead. His friends and family were dead. He had no-one left. For one, terrifying moment, he stood, poised over the brink. The emptiness before him seemed to draw him downwards and his vision blurred. Then, a face flashed before his eyes - at once both Talagan and his mother. He stumbled back from the cliff edge, and tripped backwards onto a tree stump. He sat on it and sobbed, burying his head in his hands. Images flashed through his mind - the burning hall, the falling cliff, his mother's face, Talagan's last command.

"Why have you left me!" he cried aloud. Birds flew up in alarm. "You want me to be safe, but how can I be, when neither of you are here with me?"

After a few minutes, he sensed a presence behind him. "Go away," he sniffed without looking up.

Whoever it was said nothing, merely waited. Slowly, Lathron's tears subsided, and he raised his head. Elrond sat on the ground beside him, gazing solemnly to the west. "Talagan is safe," he said eventually, "as are your parents. They are happy."

"How can you know that?"

"I can see many things," replied Elrond. "They are safe."

There was another long minute of silence, then, "Why did he do it?"

"He did it to protect us. Especially you, I think. He was very fond of you, you know. He had a child once, long ago - a little girl. She died very young."

"He never told me."

"No, he never told anyone. I only knew because I was there. It was at the time when the Enemy first came to power in Eregion.

For the first time, Lathron really appreciated how old Talagan was. Then he wondered how old Elrond had to be. Such vast expanses of time threatened to overwhelm him again so he asked another question - one which had been troubling him. "At the end, Talagan used the relics, didn't he? He used dark magic."

Elrond nodded gravely.

"That means that he must have been studying them - practicing with them - to know how to use them."

Another nod.

"Does that make him a bad person?"

"Not at all. Talagan did what needed to be done. If he had not used the relics, Skorgrím and his 'master' would have, and the consequences would be much worse. Sometimes, to fight our enemy, we must learn their ways, so that we might use their weaknesses to our advantage. It is a necessary evil, and Talagan tried to stay as far within the light as possible. Do not dwell on such things. Focus instead on the good that Talagan achieved. He was instrumental in Angmar's first downfall. He helped found this refuge, and guarded its secrets for many hundreds of years. He took you in, and taught you to be a hunter, and he saved our lives. Never forget that."

Lathron nodded slowly, then asked. "Will I stay here?"

Now, Elrond looked sorrowful. "I am afraid not; Edhelion has fallen. It is irrepairable. We cannot breach the Sanctuary without undermining the whole cliff and risking further collapse. No, the knowledge stored inside is lost forever, and the rest of the buildings are badly damaged. Besides, soon the Dwarves will have finished their grand hall and this valley will cease to be the place of contemplation it once was. We will remain here long enough to bury the dead and salvage what can be salvaged, and then we must leave. If you wish, and I would be greatly pleased if you did, you may return with me to Imladris, where you would become my ward. What say you?"

"Can I think about it for a minute?" Lathron asked.

"Of course." Elrond rose to leave. "Only don't take too long. We leave two days from now." With that, he was gone.

Lathron remained on his tree stump, watching an eagle soar across the horizon. Talagan's final words echoed in his head. Elrond was right - there was no home for him here any more. There were too many bad memories for him here now, and the world was full of possibilities. He remembered the stories the Elves of Duillond had told him about lands far to the East, and Elrond's pronouncement the night before - 'his fate will be tied to that of Middle Earth'. A sense of adventure kindled inside him, and a longing to see new lands.

The eagle soared closer, and now Lathron saw that it was not an eagle at all, but a raven. Its glossy blue-black plumage glistened in the sun and it fixed him across the empty expanse with one beady black eye. It gave one, deep croak, and appeared to nod. Then, with a beat of its wings, it crested the ridge and was gone, flying east.

Lathron stood and removed his quiver and sword belt. Carefully, deliberately, he laid them on the edge of the precipice. Finally he removed his face scarf and spoke aloud to the air. "I'm leaving, mother, Talagan," he called, "but I promise I'll return, someday, and someday after that, I _will_ see you again." Tears welled in his eyes again, but this time he let them flow freely. "Farewell!" he whispered, and strode off down the mountain. A whole new world awaited him.

* * *

Hi all, I'm back! Yay! I told you it would be worth it - blood 'n guts 'n feels, yay! Any ideas who Skorgrim's 'master' is? (I know, it's not hard. There's at least a 1 in 3 chance).

Hope you're enjoying it. Please favourite and review. Etc. etc.

Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

* * *

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarities to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


	6. Chapter 6

**Intermission**

Time passed - 269 years, to be exact. Lathron grew and flourished under Elrond's care. His skill with the bow and blade improved enormously. By the time he was 20, he became Imladris' chief hunter, leading forays out into the Trollshaws to hunt game to bring back to Elrond's table. Despite this, Lathron never seemed to get on with the other Elves. Whether it was the memories of his past haunting him still, or a natural hardness of heart that had developed through facing so many hardships, he never truly befriended the other Elves, although he felt most comfortable around Elladan and Elrohir, who were closer to him in age. They and Elrond was his sole confidants.

As he aged, Elrond encouraged him to study the craft of the smiths and woodworkers there. With all the time in the world on his hands, he progressed rapidly. Eventually he crafted himself a bow of dark yew wood and two thin steel swords, which he was very proud of.

It was some while before he felt prepared to set out from Imladris and see the world, as he had intended. All of Eriador was now open to him, and he roved across the countries, visiting first the wilds of the Lone Lands and North Downs. He felt a kinship with these places, and the wilderness seemed to call to him. He spent nights alone atop Weathertop, gazing at the stars. He ran across the rolling hills of the North Downs, revelling in the wind on his face.

Then, he visited the bustling town of Bree. There, he saw his first Men, and the strange race - like Elves, but unlike - intrigued him. He spent many a night in the Prancing Pony, which was then but newly founded, developing a taste for Men's ale, although he was generally the dark stranger in the corner, rather than the life and soul of the party. Often, people were unaware they had met one of the fair folk.

Lathron also wandered the green, homely land of the Shire. He soon learnt that, small and humorous as the Hobbits were, they were fiercely mistrustful of anything they deemed 'unnatural', and Lathron, tall and beweaponed, dressed in dark cloaks and headscarves, fit that description perfectly to the Hobbits. More than once, he found himself chased off a farmer's land by an angry, pitchfork wielding Halfling, or packs of dogs. He knew they posed him no threat, but eventually he stayed out of sight when travelling through the Shire, or stayed on the east side of the Brandywine. The Brandybucks proved more hospitable, and he made himself known to them. It was from them that he heard tales of the Old Forest, and he roamed its borders, although he never went anywhere near the Withywindle Valley; the trees there unnerved him. Once, he thought he heard singing, but never found any sign of the singer, which troubled him, as his tracking skills were legendary among the Elves of Imladris. From there, he once ventured into the Barrow Downs. After that visit, he was determined never to return; Wights, even when seen from a distance through fog, were no pleasant encounter.

No matter where he travelled, Lathron had a deep seated fear of wolves. Their howls kept him awake at night if he heard them in the wilderness, and if he found their tracks, he would walk far around to avoid them. Nevertheless, he never hunted any creature needlessly, wolf or not, but in the Fell Winter of 2911, he found himself in the Shire when the Brandywine froze over and the white wolves invaded, he was happy to aid the Hobbits in driving them off, though they did not know it. He received no thanks, but the act in itself was reward enough.

He also could never quite bring himself to trust Dwarves. Oh, the travelling merchants he encountered on the road and in Bree were friendly enough, but his experiences at the hands of Skorgrím's folk left him deeply suspicious of their kind.

From the Shire to Imladris he roamed freely, but there were invisible bounds that he had set himself, which he would not cross. He never ventured far enough west to see the Ered Luin where he had lived long ago. The Misty Mountains, too, reminded him too much of home, and Eregion brought back memories of Talagan, so he would not venture into them.

In the year 2933, a Human woman and her son came to Imladris. It was the first time Lathron had seen their kind in the valley, and naturally he was intrigued. The woman, he learnt, was called Gilraen. Her son, Elrond said, was to be called Estel.

Estel grew fast, and soon wished to learn the ways of the sword and the bow. As the best hunter in Imladris, the task of teaching him fell to Lathron. The two became very close - Estel looked up to Lathron as a young boy, and as he grew older and entered manhood, they became fast friends. When Gilraen died, it was Lathron in whom the young man found solace. Eventually, however, Estel left Imladris to find his own way in the world, and so Lathron was once again alone. Estel, or Aragorn, as he was now beginning to call himself, returned to Imladris once or twice, but he always seemed distracted, as though his mind was somewhere else. Lathron also met the Grey Pilgrim several times during his travels, although only briefly. The old man in his robe and hat never stopped for long, but was always ready to provide conversation and advice for a short while, before striding off on his way.

In the Autumn of year 3016, Elrond received a troubling dream. Within the dream, he said, a voice spoke to him, conveying this riddle:

'Blood-red footsteps

Upon snow coloured black,

Where the Dour King walks

To take back his throne

And finish what was begun.'

There was much confusion within the Last Homely House as to what the riddle could mean, but one thing was certain to all - the 'Dour King' was Skorgrím.

Skorgrím - the very name sent shivers down Lathron's spine, and made his face ache. He had hoped never to hear it again, but Elrond was worried. There had been no word from Thorin's Hall for a long while. Not, in fact, since the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had set out to reclaim Erebor. Then, the message had been that Thorin had left his steward Gormr Doursmith in charge. The name awoke suspicions in the minds of Elrond and his folk - all was not well in the Ered Luin, and a party had to be sent to investigate. Elladan and Elrohir were to lead, but it was decided that, in the interests of safety, the group should be large. Those in the party would have to know the area around Thorin's Hall well, and have previous experience of dealing with Skorgrím's folk. Lathron's spirits fell when he realised the truth.

As winter drew in, as it had all those years ago, he shouldered his pack and, with heavy heart, took his last look at Imladris for what would be a long time to come.

He was going home.

* * *

And that's how you deal with a very dull, several hundred year gap in the narrative.

Hi all, my last upload of this batch, and it was a canonical nightmare, so I thought this would be a good place to stop. I am editing the next lot, don't worry. Actual narrative is so much more fun to write.

Favourite, review... oh, you know the drill by now.

Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

* * *

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


	7. Chapter 7

Lathron stood on the rise, gazing down at the Vale of Thrain. The snow was thicker than he had ever seen it before, blanketing the ground, piled against the cliffs in great drifts. Although it was only late morning, the sky was steely grey, and the towering façade of Thorin's Hall was all but invisible. The drifting snow was not the only reason for this - across the valley, a series of chimneys had been built, which belched out a haze of smoke that had stained the snow the colour of charcoal. Lathron sighed as he remembered the pristine wilderness the vale had once been - the Dwarves had a lot to answer for.

Turning back, he strode into the campsite. The Elves had pitched their tents among the ruins of the old gatehouse of Edhelion Watch. To the north, the road curved up the hill towards the refuge itself.

Two contingents of Elves had met here, at the behest of Elrond. One, led by Elladan and Elrohir, had set out from Rivendell over a month ago. The other, led by Dorongúr Whitethorn, had come from Duillond to meet them. Elrond wished at least some members of the party to have knowledge of current events within the Ered Luin. So far, that plan had not gone well. It appeared that ever since Thorin's death at the hands of Bolg, son of Azog, during the Battle of Five Armies, the Dwarves of his hall had cut off all contact with the rest of the Ered Luin. At first, this was understandable - after all, the Dwarves had lost a beloved king, the last of the ancient line of Durin. After years of silence, however, and not just towards Elves but fellow Dwarves, suspicions had formed, and the news from Elrond just added to the suspicion.

Lathron strode through the camp, heading for its northern end. Elladan stood there in the middle of the track, gazing up to where the spires of Edhelion could just be seen above the ridge. He made no motion that he had seen Lathron as the other Elf appeared beside him. After a while, he said, "It is sad to see how beauty and wisdom can be brought low by greed. You are fortunate indeed to have seen this place in its full glory."

"The Vale is polluted," Lathron reported curtly, ignoring Elladan's comment for the moment. "There are chimneys and strange devices upon the western side, and the snow is blackened by the smoke they emit."

"Black snow, you say?" questioned Elladan, intrigued. "Just like in my Father's dream. I wonder if that is what it means, although it is rather literal for a riddle."

"I think, for the moment, it is our best lead," sighed Lathron. "What do you wish me to do next?"

Elladan looked at him gravely. "I do not ask this of you lightly, but someone must do it. Dorongúr knows this land better than any other Elf with us here, yet his scouts report that he made for the refuge upon arrival and has not been seen since. Will you seek him within Edhelion? I know you did not wish to come here, but you know the refuge best, and I must consult with our scouts. Find Dorongúr, and ask him what he thinks of the riddle. Find out if he has discovered anything to our advantage.

For a moment, Lathron considered refusing. Then, he hardened his heart. It was time for him to face his fears, he told himself. Talagan would not have hesitated. "Very well," he said, and strode off up the path.

The wind was bitingly cold, blowing up from below and threatening to pluck Lathron off the narrow track. Then, he turned the corner and there, before him, was Edhelion.

The stones of the refuge were grey and crumbling, and the courtyards were filled with thick snowdrifts. As Lathron walked between the tumbled pillars that were all that remained of the gates, a lynx darted out past his leg, shooting him a mistrustful glare and a hiss. Instinctively, Lathron reached for his bow, and had it drawn and an arrow nocked before he realised the small wildcat was no threat.

Eerie silence filled the ruins, and the wind whistled through empty archways and around pillars. Under a roof, where fresh snow had not yet piled up high enough to cover them, Lathron saw a set of footprints. Only a day old, made by an Elf of medium build and height, heading towards the central courtyard. He followed them, slipping through the gates, which were slightly ajar. There were still drag marks in the snow from where they had been opened. Silently, he paced across the courtyard, remembering his swordplay lessons and the wounded lining the flagstones.

He stepped through the Inner Gate and turned up the stairway. At the top stood Dorongúr. But for a faint haze of breath crystals, one might have thought he was frozen. Snow had piled up around his feet and settled on his hair and shoulders. He was staring across the chasm, to where Talagan had fallen so long ago. Lathron stood beside him, but he did not stir, even when Lathron put a hand on his shoulder. When he called Dorongúr's name and there was still no response, Lathron began to get worried. For the first time, he noticed that, although snow had settled in Dorongúr's hair, the actual hair was also prematurely white, where once it had been brown. The Elf's face was lined and impassive. The sight of his old comrade looking so old and frail shocked Lathron. "Dorongúr," he pleaded. "It's me, Lathron. Don't you remember me?"

Slowly, the old Elf's eyes twitched, and he turned slightly to face Lathron. "Lathron?" he whispered. "Is that really you?" Tears had frozen on his cheeks, and his lips were blue.

"Yes, it's me!" exclaimed Lathron, but you've got to move. If you stay here you'll die!"

Lathron's words seemed to rouse Dorongúr slightly. He looked around bemusedly, as if wondering where he was. "Lathron," he said again, his voice fading. "Little Lathron? But it can't be. You died. Or was it Talagan, I can't remember. Was it me?" He giggled alarmingly. Suddenly, Lathron was gripped with the fear that here, Dorongúr, too, would die.

"Oh no you don't," he growled, hefting the other Elf in his arms - he felt as light as a feather and terrifyingly frail. "I've already lost one of you here, I'm not going to lose another."

By the time he had carried Dorongúr back to camp, the older Elf had slipped into a coma. The healers rushed him into their tent, where they lit a fire, supplying him with tinctures and muttering words in Quenya while Lathron could only sit outside and watch them helplessly as they scurried back and forth. He felt like a failure. If Dorongúr died too, how could he forgive himself?

After a tense hour, a healer came out to speak to him. "We have done what we can," she said. "He will recover from the cold, although I suspect he may lose some fingers. What may never recover is his mind. He seems delirious, and keeps mentioning names - Talagan, Skorgrím, yours.

"Can I speak to him?" Lathron asked. "It's urgent - about Elrond's dream."

"I'm afraid he is asleep at present. I will inform you when he wakes. Until then, I must request that you do not disturb him."

It was a long day after that. Lathron paced up and down the camp, until everyone around him was thoroughly on edge. Finally, Elladan approached him. "Would you mind hunting for some more food?" he asked. "We're low on meat, and I can't spare many others." Lathron knew it was a lie, but he went anyway - anything to distract him from Dorongúr's awful condition.

The woods around the camp were alive with hares. He shot half-heartedly at any he came across, not caring if he hit or missed. Only when his arrows ran out did he take in the damage - eighteen dead hares, and almost twice as many lost or broken arrows. Talagan would not have been pleased. Elladan raised an eyebrow when he saw the pile of corpses, but said nothing, merely gestured towards the cooking tent.

At least now, Lathron had something truly constructive to do - he worked late into the evening making new arrows - whittling the shafts, trimming fletching from hawk feathers and fixing iron heads to the ends. He couldn't stomach the bowl of hare stew that was brought to him, so he tipped it into the bushes and let the lynxes squabble over the meat. When his fingers were raw and his eyelids heavy, he crawled into his tent and fell asleep instantly.

His dreams were troubled by howls and cruel laughter. Three shadowy figures stood over him - one short and stout, with glowing green eyes, one thin and hunched, with blood dripping from his fingers, and one tall and terrifying, seeming to draw light into himself. Behind them, a darker shadow loomed, remote, and yet its malice beat at him. They mocked him with strange words and called his name over and over. 'Lathron, Lathron.'

"Lathron!"

He awoke, lashing out with his knife, and narrowly missed hitting the healer as she tried to wake him. She leapt back, angry. "Careful!" she scolded. "I only came to tell you that Dorongúr is awake. He wants to speak to you."

"Oh. Sorry." Lathron took several deep breaths to calm himself. "Just give me a minute - I'm coming."

The woman snorted and stalked out of the tent, muttering something about ingratitude and the violence of youngsters. Lathron sat for a few moments, until the image of the shadowy figures had disappeared from his mind, then followed her.

She appeared to have calmed down when he met her outside the infirmary. "He asked for you specifically when he woke up. I must warn you, he's very frail, and his wits tend to wander. Are you sure you want to see him?"

"Positive."

"Very well, come in."

Dorongúr lay under a pile of furs at the centre of the tent, nearest the fire. Despite this, he was shivering, and his eyes stared blankly up. For a moment, Lathron was afraid he might have fallen unconscious again, but then he coughed, sat up, and saw Lathron. His face brightened. "Lathron!" he wheezed, then lapsed into another coughing fit.

Lathron drew closer. "Don't hurt yourself. Lie back down."

Dorongúr ignored him. "I knew it was you. You rescued me, thank you."

"What in Arda were you doing up there?" Lathron asked. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

Dorongúr looked abashed. "Sorry. I just needed to... to see it again. See where it happened. You understand, don't you?"

Lathron nodded. "It's good to see you again, Dorongúr."

"And you too. My, how you've grown, although you're still wearing that scarf, I see." Lathron touched it self-consciously, but Dorongúr seemed to have forgotten him for a second. He stared into the fire, muttering. "Black snow, red footprints, cold flesh. The Dour King cannot sleep, oh no, oh no."

Lathron recognised the words. "The riddle," he asked. "What do you know of it?"

Dorongúr gripped his arm suddenly and stared past him. Lathron noticed with a shock that two of his fingers were stiff and blackened from frostbite. "No, it can't happen!" the Elf cried. "Talagan... all for naught. Bloody flowers. Poisoned water. The Dourhands know, oh yes. They're behind it, but who's behind them?" He chuckled maniacally. "Who indeed? You must stop them, you must, or all is lost."

Lathron tried to break free, but the vice-like grip held him fast. Healers rushed forward to calm Dorongúr, laying him back down on the mat. The woman turned to Lathron. "I think it would be best if you go now."

"No!" Dorongúr sat up again. "Wait! Go back to the refuge. The footprints of blood... find them there. Below too. Seek the fallen. Find his footprints, the dead footprints. Find where the dead have walked!"

He began coughing again, and solemnly, Lathron turned to go. The woman gave him a sad look as he left. "I'm sorry."

Outside, he found Elladan waiting. Elrond's son looked tired and wan. "Elrohir has not come back," he said, when he saw Lathron. The other Elf had gone to seek clues further in the valley, and explore the situation further before the Elves attempted to initiate contact. This was bad news. "What does Dorongúr say?" Elladan continued. "Anything of use?"

"Perhaps," Lathron mused. "He kept mentioning the footprints of blood. He told me to go back to Edhelion and look for the start of a trail, and then look below, to follow them and find where the dead had walked. He mentioned the Dourhands too. Suggested they were behind whatever is going on."

"That much at least is the only thing clear in this sordid affair," growled Elladan. "Nevertheless, it is worth following his advice. His talk of the dead walking troubles me. Go back to the refuge. See if you can find these 'footprints of blood'. Meanwhile, I shall go and see if there is a way to get below the refuge. The Dwarves must have dug a mine or something into the abyss below Edhelion."

Once again, Lathron headed up into Edhelion. The night was at its darkest, so this time, he took a torch with him. Grey owls swooped overhead and the lynxes stalked through the ruins, watching him warily with glowing green eyes. He thought of his dream again and shivered.

At the fallen bridge he stopped and scanned around. After a short search he saw it - growing from the rubble on the far side was a thin, scraggly plant, with a thorny stem and clusters of spiky red flowers. A scent of rottenness wafted over to him and he gagged. Here, then, was a 'footprint of blood'. Now he just had to find where it led.

* * *

Hi readers. Normality resumes, after a long wait. Holidays make it very easy to write, but very hard to get around to posting, but I'm back now. I wonder who the spooky figures in the dream are. If you know the game, you can probably guess. If you just know the story, at least one should be fairly obvious. I hope you're enjoying it so far. I know I am.

Just a warning - I am now starting my A-levels (if you're not English, just in case you don't know, they're your final two years of exams before university). I have been reliably informed that they are absolutely shit-nasty and require a lot of extra time. I shall strive to write (it might be the only way for me to relax after all) but never assume. This is, after all, a hobby.

Review. Like. Follow.

Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

* * *

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


	8. Chapter 8

Lathron met Elladan coming back up the rise from the Vale of Thrain. "It is as I thought," he said upon seeing the hunter, "there is a mine that has been dug into the cliff below Edhelion - the Silver Deep. It looks deserted, but I'd bet that is where we will, or will not, find Skorgrím's body."

"There is an evil looking red flower growing from the rock above the abyss," Lathron replied. "If Dorongúr is to be believed, it seems to be growing in places where Skorgrím's corpse has been. If he is not there, it is likely the flowers will lead us to him."

Elladan spat. "This sounds like dark magic. Do you want me to come with you to the Silver Deep Mine?"

Lathron almost said yes, but his sense of adventure was beginning to kindle again. "No, I'll be fine. Besides, I prefer to hunt alone."

"So be it," Elladan sighed, regarding his friend fondly. "If Skorgrím's corpse is indeed absent, seek out Elrohir. He is somewhere within the Vale, I can feel it. He will have knowledge of the Dwarves, and how best to approach them. Until then, stay out of sight. I know you do that very well."

"Farewell." Lathron hoisted his quiver and set off down the hill.

He was barely out of sight of the camp when the path forked, one way turning left towards the Vale, the other carrying straight on, hugging the slope. He took the second, and soon came across a set of stairs. Below him, a deep square alcove had been cut into the rock, with many tiers stairs and platforms ringing it on three sides. He wound his way down it to a small, flagstoned courtyard filled with rubble and rusty mining equipment. It was as Elladan had said - the mine had been abandoned long ago. Lathron wondered what could have induced the Dwarves to leave their precious metals behind. Nothing good, he guessed.

The door to the mine was large and square, made of iron. It took quite an effort to turn the rusty handle, and the door made a painful grinding sound as it opened, but thanks to the Dwarves' ingenious engineering, it felt as light as if it were made of wood. A warm, clammy uprush of air blew past Lathron's face as he peered in. The tunnel was wide but twisting - he could see no more than twenty metres down it. He took a deep breath and plunged inside.

He let go of the door, and it swung shut behind him with an echoing clang. He winced and held his breath.

In the distance, something skittered quietly.

Luckily, there was still some light in the tunnel, given off by clusters of strange crystals held in brackets. The glow they gave off was pale and blue, casting more shadows than it illuminated. He crept along with an arrow nocked, scanning the darkness. Everywhere were signs of a hasty abandonment - dropped pickaxes, piles of rubble, and silver. Everywhere, the gleam of silver. If he hadn't been so on edge, Lathron would have stopped to admire it. Veins of it ran through the rock like flowing streams. Piles of nuggets were strewn all over the floor. That struck him as odd for a moment, then he realised why. If the Dwarves had abandoned the mine, who had arranged the piles?

Again, he heard a skittering ahead, and froze. The noise grew louder, until round the corner scuttled a bizarre creature. It was roughly knee high, moving on four spindly legs akin to a rat or other rodent, but it was clearly neither. By far its most prominent feature was a huge talon-like beak or horn protruding from its upper jaw. Its skin was pale, and covered with warts and bristles, and its teeth sharp and uneven. Then he noticed its face - huge nostrils and ear holes, but no eyes. The creature bobbed its head about, sniffing, before heading to a pile of silver on the floor. It nuzzled it tenderly, then rubbed its flank against the chunks of metal.

Another one followed it, but instead, it froze in the middle of the tunnel. It gave off several rapid clicks, which echoed off the tunnel walls, than bobbed its head strangely. It made for one of the veins of silver in the wall and began tapping it with its beak. A chunk of the metal broke free and the creature pushed it over to its own pile. It crooned at the metal, then licked it, before finally taking some up in its mouth and swallowing it whole.

Lathron was thoroughly bewildered - what were these things? He took a step closer, and instantly, the two creatures' heads snapped up. They clicked again, then sniffed. In unison their heads swivelled to face him. They let out twin squeals, and charged.

The first fell with an arrow in its back, but by then, the second was on him. Its beak narrowly missed his leg, tearing a gash in his leggings, and the creature careened into a pile of silver, sending it flying. It skittered round and charged again. Lathron drew his sword and stabbed downwards, skewering the creature against the tunnel floor. It scrabbled, scouring deep gashes in the rock with its beak, let out a pig-like squeal, then collapsed, dead.

Thick, silvery blood oozed from the wound as Lathron withdrew his sword. He wiped it on the creature's body and sheathed it again. He would take no chances with these things, whatever they were. Anything that ate metal and had a beak that could score grooves in solid rock was dangerous in his experience.

He crept round the corner and found himself in a vast cavern. A deep crevasse split it in two, and was spanned by a narrow wooden bridge. More of the creatures were dotted around the cavern, each guarding a pile of silver, or tapping the walls to dig for more. Silently, he drew his bow, guessing which ones would notice if he made for the bridge, and which would not. One by one, he picked them off, aiming for their vitals, and they fell to the floor with barely a whisper. None of the others noticed a thing. He crept towards the bridge without alerting them and paused in the middle to decide where to go next, trying not to look down at the dizzying drop into nothingness below him. It appeared that at some point, two tunnels had led off from the far side of the cavern, but one had collapsed. He looked closer. The collapsed tunnel showed signs of being forced open - cracks radiated out from it - no wonder it had collapsed. There was only one thing with that sort of strength - a Troll. He hoped the monster was long gone.

He repeated the process of clearing the creatures on this side too, before proceeding to the open tunnel. He breathed a sigh of relief as he turned the corner.

With a shriek, something leapt at him, knocking him to the ground. Hooked claws snagged at his clothes, filthy teeth gnashed at his throat, a huge beak jabbed at his face. With an effort, he threw the creature off him and drew his knife, burying it in the creature's belly. It squealed and leapt again. He kicked it against the wall, stabbing again and again. Finally it was dead, and he crouched, panting heavily. He sheathed the knife and drew his swords.

The tunnel wound deeper and deeper into the earth. Every so often, he would turn a corner and come across another of the creatures, but by now he was ready for them, and his swords made light work of them. Finally he emerged into another cavern. After one look, he ducked back inside the tunnel immediately.

There was a Troll on the far side of the cavern.

After a few seconds of hearing nothing, he risked another look. This time, he had to stifle a laugh. The troll was standing with a beam of early morning sunlight shining directly in its face. It was stone dead. Literally. He walked round it still chuckling, and noticed the cracks spider-webbing across its body - the Troll had been here for some time. Then he stopped. Through a narrow crevice, he saw red tiles, golden enamelling - the remains of an Elvish ruin. He had found the bottom of the abyss.

Filled with trepidation, he squeezed through into a small cave, filled with rubble. The remains of Edhelion's towers filled most of the space. Sunlight filtered down from above. Then, he saw the bones.

They protruded from beneath the rubble. Arms and legs, twisted at odd angles. Shattered ribcages. Two were small, clad in armour - Skorgrím's henchmen. The other was taller, surrounded by faded rags. Tears filled his eyes - it was Talagan.

He gazed on the face of his old master, and Talagan stared back with empty eye sockets, grinning. With an effort, Lathron tore his eyes away, forcing himself to look for Skorgrím's body.

In one place, the rubble had been cleared in a circle. Drag marks, where something heavy and metal had been removed, were visible. Skorgrím was gone. In his place was a stinking red flower.

Lathron felt a chill. It was just as Dorongúr had said. Then he realised something else was missing - the relics. Talagan's bony hands were outstretched, but Ivar's ring and hand were not in them. Dread seized Lathron then. Who had the relics now, and what were they planning to do with them? He picked one of the flowers, then turned and fled the cave, Talagan's skull still grinning in his mind's eye.

* * *

*Sniff*. Poor Lathron. Poor Talagan. Poor cave claws - they're quite cute really. Bloody annoying, but cute. The Troll, in case you were wondering, is in the Dwarf characters' introduction, and falls afoul of a certain wandering wizard... You only really get the full picture of what's going on in LotRO if you play as every race - a slightly scammy tactic, I guess, but very in-depth. They put in lots of easter eggs too, like a writers' club in a Shire tavern, whose members all have strangely similar names to a certain club of Oxford English professors and part-time fantasy writers... Please tell me someone understands that other than me...

No, Turbine is not paying me to advertise.

Review. Like. Follow.

Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

* * *

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental. If you read this far, send me a comment saying 'Troll got trolled'. Just wondering.


	9. Chapter 9

After the dim light of the mine, the sunlight blinded Lathron for a moment. Once his eyes had gotten used to the outside again, he looked around. In front of him, across the courtyard, a pair of iron bar gates led out into the Vale. On the other side, something red caught his eye. He walked closer - yes, another red flower. He looked along the path as it curved round to the west. Just before it disappeared behind some trees he saw another. 'The footprints of blood,' he thought to himself. 'Leading to... what? Skorgrím's corpse?'

He followed the path west warily, increasingly conscious that he was now entering the lands of the Dwarves. Elladan had told him to stay out of sight, but what if the trail led him straight into the Dwarves' arms? He would have to trust that he met Elrohir before then.

The trail of flowers led along the road, past the path that led back to the camp, then out of the trees through a patch of snowy heathland. To the north - Lathron's right - a series of frozen ponds were visible. A young auroch ambled along the bank of one, nosing the ground for what few hardy plants had survived the winter. Although only a calf, the great cattle was as high as Lathron's shoulder, and he stood for a moment to watch the peaceful creature go by.

A furtive movement caught his eye and instinctively he fell into a crouch. There, to the right, dark shapes slinking along a ridge, towards the auroch. The youngster hadn't noticed the threat, and continued grazing. Lathron wouldn't normally have worried about it - nature was nature, let it take its course - but something about this felt wrong. He strained his eyes to get a closer look at the hunters. There were five. They looked like wolves - no, dogs - but far bigger and stronger than any dogs he'd ever seen before. Their eyes glowed red, drool frothed from between their yellow fangs, and they stalked forward in lethal silence.

The auroch caught their sent and wheeled about, but its eyes were small and covered with overhanging hair, so that it couldn't see the danger. It lowed in distress, and suddenly the dogs pounced. There was a blur of fur and fangs, a spray of blood, a flurry of snarls and one shrill scream, then the auroch was down, and the dogs were ripping at its guts which had spilled over the ice. One gave a howl, and the sound made Lathron freeze in terror. Wolf howls made him shiver at the best of times, but this, it was like winter given voice.

The dogs went back to eating, leaving Lathron free to slip away. Not far along the path, he came across a fork to the left, into a narrow gully bordered by low cliffs. A stone arch, clearly of Dwarf make, guarded the entrance. Ahead, the path continued under another arch, into a cluster of Dwarven buildings. From out of them, a flight of steps rose to the north, leading to the huge façade of Thorin's Hall.

Just under the left hand arch, another red flower grew. Lathron walked over to it, then paused. Within the valley, rough voices echoed. Rather than entering along the path, he slunk round onto the cliff, crawling on his belly until he could see down into the valley. At the far end, a cluster of Dwarves stood on a dais before a pair of large, beaten copper doors. They were discussing something earnestly, but he couldn't make out what. One thing was clear - the Dwarf in the centre, wearing a golden chain and helmet, was in charge.

"What in Durin's name are you doing?" hissed a voice beside him. He turned towards it. There, lying on the lip of the crag just as he was, was another Dwarf. He glared angrily at Lathron.

"I might ask you the same question," hissed Lathron in reply. What are you doing spying on your own people?"

"My own people? Pah! Just like an Elf!" He gestured angrily down at the Dwarves below. "They are Dourhands -oath breakers and thieves. I am a Longbeard, of the noble house of Durin. If you were more than but a stranger to these lands, you would know the difference."

Lathron bristled angrily. "Don't talk about what you don't understand. I was born in these lands, as you would know, if you had any knowledge of my folk."

Now it was the Dwarf's turn to bristle. "What is your purpose here?" he growled, trying with difficulty to keep his voice down to a safe volume. "You jeopardise our entire operation. What if you're seen?"

"I am far less likely to be seen than you, but if you must know, I am here at the behest of Lord Elrond of Rivendell to investigate what is going on here in Thorin's Hall."

At once the Dwarf's whole demeanour changed. He beamed, and bowed as best he could while lying on his stomach. "Why, then we are here on the same purpose! Elrond has long been a friend to our people. Tryggwi, son of Tryggolf, at your service."

Lathron rolled his eyes. "Now will you explain what you are doing?"

"The same as you. I, along with a company of other Dwarves led by Lord Dwalin, came from Erebor to investigate the goings on here. There has been no tribute from the Hall for far too long now. At first, we thought the mines had run dry, but now, we are not so sure. The Dourhands seem eager to hide something, and there is something terribly wrong in the Vale. I came to speak with the Steward, Gormr Doursmith, whom Thorin left in charge all those years ago, but I decided I might hear more to my advantage if I stayed up here, rather than speaking to him directly; he has been less than friendly to us. Unfortunately, as you can hear for yourself, I was mistaken."

Lathron thought for a moment. Tryggwi was right - he would find out nothing of use up here. Elladan had told him to stay out of sight, but now the time had come to find answers. Elrohir was nowhere to be found. It was time to take matters into his own hands.

* * *

Lathron stepped into the valley, and in an instant, all eyes were upon him. "Halt!" a guard commanded. "Who goes there?"

Lathron turned his palms outward in a gesture of peace. "Elladan, son of Lord Elrond of Rivendell, at your service," he lied.

The Dwarves eyed each other with poorly concealed alarm. Finally, Gormr Doursmith stepped forward. "Ah, my Lord, what a pleasure it is to meet you. What brings an Elf such as yourself here to the Vale of Thrain, so far from Rivendell? It wouldn't have anything to do with that party of Longbeards, would it?" His voice grew stern, and his eyes cold.

Subtly, Lathron eyed his surroundings. The road down the valley was lined with the red flowers, and they grew entwined with each other all around the doors. If Skorgrím was anywhere, it was here. "No, Steward Gormr," he replied, thinking fast. I came here with only my brother Elrohir. Our father wished for us to see Edhelion of old, and I took the chance to wander down into the Vale. The tales told of your halls are legendary." He gestured mildly towards the doors. "What lies through there?"

Gormr eyed him with an odd mix of suspicion and pride. "That is the tomb of the old king of my people, Skorgrím Dourhand. He fell in Edhelion, to your people, as I'm sure you are aware," his voice took on a nasty edge. "We came across his body many years ago, and decided to move him to a tomb more fitting of his station. Tonight happens to be the anniversary of his death, when we pay our respects to him in his tomb. Our preparations are underway, so if you would excuse us." He turned rudely back to the other Dwarves.

Lathron would not be ignored so blatantly. "I wish to pay my respects," he announced.

That got their attention. Gormr eyed him with confusion. "You... you do?"

"I do. I wish to mend the rift between our races. Many died that day, all of them needlessly, due to a petty feud between our races. I would end that, if only you will let me pay my respects.

"We do not let outsiders enter the tomb of our beloved forefather!" Gormr snapped. Then, a crafty look came into his eyes. "However, if you truly wish to pay your respects, we have erected a shrine to him away yonder." He gestured east, where a short side valley branched off. "Rockbelly Pit is its name, but there is another task I would have of you, if you would truly mend the strife between our races."

"Whatever your task, name it."

"Your people robbed us of a great king. In light of that, and to pay for what your kin did, I wish you to bring me seven black, sacred stones from the pit. We shall use them for the ritual celebrations tonight. Everyone attending requires one to pay tribute, but I could not find enough."

Lathron bowed. "Of course, Steward Gormr. Gladly."

"Begone, then," the Dwarf growled, "and be sure to bring the stones."

As soon as Lathron judged he was out of earshot, he let loose with a string of curses. It had taken all his self-control not to throttle the repulsive Steward there and then. Nevertheless, he had got what he wanted - he knew now that Skorgrím's corpse had indeed been moved, and the Dourhands would be performing some sort of ritual in his tomb that night. He shivered. Something told him that whatever was going on, it was much more sinister than Gormr had made out.

* * *

Oh, the bureaucracy of Dwarves.

Hi. Long time no see. I've been having a break from writing, and therefore a break from posting. In case you were wondering, I have a large backlog of chapters, but I only post when I feel I have a safe amount in backup, just so in case I have a horrible case of writer's block I can keep posting.

So I got a follower! Hi! Thanks very much, it's a great morale booster for me. Particularly important in the case of LotRO, where if you run out of morale you die...

Haha. I'm so funny.

You know the drill by now.

Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

* * *

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental. So no one noticed my endcard last time :(. If you notice this one, there's money in it for you. No, not really. PM me with a character name (preferably in keeping with Middle Earthish names, so not Bob or Ermintrude please) and I'll see if I can work them in somewhere.


	10. Chapter 10

The door to Rockbelly Pit opened silently, which was a mercy, but inside, it was almost pitch black. Only four crystal lights were visible - two by the door, and two more a little way inside, illuminating the base of a huge statue. He walked towards them, and gasped.

The cave was small in width, but so tall it must have extended to the top of the cliff. The roof was shrouded in darkness. The path spiralled up inside the walls, with windows providing views of the centre of the cavern, where, at the centre of a shallow pool, a huge statue of black stone glared down at Lathron. He shuddered as he came face to face with his old enemy. Skorgrím's statue was horribly lifelike, his axe hand raised ready to smite those below him, and his stare intense and penetrating. Lathron found it difficult to tear himself away, and when he did, he felt the Dour King's gaze on the back of his neck. This cave was unnerving, and the sooner he left the better.

He began casting around for the black stones and found them at the bottom of the pool. Hastily, he scooped seven up and dropped them into a pouch on his belt. They were perfectly smooth, and chill from the water. He turned to go, and froze.

The way to the door was blocked by a cloud of huge bats. Silently, their wings scythed the air, and silently, they chittered, sending sounds he could not hear beaming towards him. They knew where he was, and now, they began to fly closer. Their fangs were as long and thin as needles, their eyes beady black like the stones he had picked up.

He attacked, whirling his swords through the cloud, slicing a number out of the air, and sending the rest scattering. They regrouped further back, still between him and the door, and advanced again, this time in earnest. Their wing beats and chitters became audible and angry.

Lathron lunged again, but this time they were ready for him. They darted out of the path of his swords and dropped down onto his head and shoulders. Their claws snagged in his hair and clothes, their wings pressed over his mouth, nose and eyes. Teeth gnashed in his ears. Disoriented, he dropped his swords and stumbled about. His shoulder drove into the wall. He felt bones break, heard a crunch, a squeal. The weight on his shoulder lessened. He backed into the wall. More crunches. The bats on his back fell off. Angrily, he tore at his face, grabbed a furry body and flung it away. Suddenly he could see. His mouth was free, and he let out a roar that echoed around the cave. In an instant, the bats froze. Those on his body fell to the floor, and those in the air fluttered about randomly, shaking their heads blearily. Blood trickled from the ears of some. This must be why the cave was so quiet, Lathron realised. Any noise was magnified by the shape of the cavern, and the bats could not tolerate such loud noise. He hurried outside before the bats could regroup, and slammed the door behind him.

"What took you so long?" Gormr growled when he approached.

"Bats," Lathron replied. "You appear to have quite an infestation."

"Infestation?" snarled Gormr. "The creatures were beloved of our king. We honour him by allowing them to live there. I hope you did not harm any of them."

"Of course not." Lathron grimaced behind his scarf. He changed the subject quickly. "Here are the stones you requested."

"Ah, perfect," Gormr snatched the stones and inspected them closely. "These will do very nicely. You have come a small way in atoning for what your people have done." The crafty look came into his eyes again. "If you truly wish to atone for the sins of your people, and pay your respects to our king, you will come to the ceremony tonight. I can assure you it won't be one to miss. Now be off. I have much to prepare for."

Lathron turned his back and strode away angrily. At the archway, Tryggwi met him. "What did you find out?" he asked eagerly.

"That Gormr is hiding something. He is preparing for some sort of ritual tonight in Skorgrím's tomb. He says it's to honour their fallen king, but I say different. He was far too eager to keep me out of that tomb. Whatever is going on, we have to find out more by ourselves. Take me to Lord Dwalin. I wish to discuss this with him."

"Of course, follow me." Tryggwi trotted down the road towards the cluster of buildings. At the archway, a pair of Dourhands stood with pikes. They stood to block the entrance at their approach. "Halt! Who wishes to enter the town of Thorin's Gate? State your name and purpose."

Tryggwi bowed. "Tryggwi, son of Tryggolf at your service. I am here with Lord Dwalin's company, and am returning to them after talking with your steward."

"Very well, you may pass," the guard replied grudgingly. He turned to Lathron, suspicion in his eyes. "And what about you?"

"I am Lord Elladan, son of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. I wish to speak with Lord Dwalin also."

The Dwarf bowed deeply. "Of course my Lord," he oiled. "Go right through."

Once they were out of earshot, Tryggwi raised an eyebrow. "Lord Elladan, eh? If I'd known, I would not have been so rude earlier."

"I'm not," Lathron confided, "but putting in a few Lords here and there opens doors to all sorts of places."

"Ah." Tryggwi tapped his nose conspiratorially. "Then I shall continue to call you my Lord, my Lord. Just out of interest, what is your name?"

"Lathron," Lathron replied. I am a hunter from Lindon, and friend to Elladan and Elrohir, so my ruse was not entirely unfounded."

They now entered a large courtyard at the centre of town. To the south, the road led out of Thorin's Gate into the southern Vale, and to the north, the steps to the Hall rose. In the centre was a sorry sight. On a plinth, a huge green copper statue of Skorgrím rose, identical to the one in the shrine. At its feet lay the shattered remains of another statue of stone. A number of sorry looking Dwarves were huddled around it, being pointedly ignored by the Dourhands milling around the square. The other Longbeards looked sympathetic towards the group, but kept their distance, as if forbidden from contact.

"There lies our Lord Thorin," mourned Tryggwi, "dishonoured in his very town. We were shocked when we saw him. This, more than anything, tells us that evil is afoot. We have been barred from the Hall as well, so we camp here, around our Lord's statue." He strode over to his fellow Longbeards. "Hail brothers," he called.

The tallest of the Dwarves, with long black hair and beard but a bald, tattooed patch on top of his head, stepped up. "Hail brother Tryggwi," he smiled. "What news from Gormr?" He eyed Lathron in confusion but not distrust. "And who is this?"

Lathron came forward. "I am Lathron, a hunter, here with a party of elves led by the Lords Elladan and Elrohir. We came to investigate a strange premonition of Lord Elrond's, concerning Skorgrím. I talked to Gormr on behalf of Tryggwi here. Now that I am here, I can see that all is not well."

"Indeed it is not," growled Dwalin, "but your presence brings joy to my heart. Had I known we were not alone in our pursuit of answers, I might have felt safer pressing that odious Gormr Doursmith for them. Tell me, what does he say?"

"He is preparing for a ritual in Skorgrím's tomb, apparently to honour their fallen king, but he seems deliberately evasive. He sent me to collect black stones from Rockbelly Pit for use in the ritual, and there is an evil feeling within that place. I was attacked by huge bats. When I returned, Gormr seemed to threaten me, stating that I would have to attend the ritual to atone for the 'sins' of my people. There is more - I started by looking for Skorgrím's body in the Silver Deep mine. When I discovered it had been moved, I also discovered a trail of red flowers leading to the tomb. They are all around the entrance. Here." He handed the flower from the Silver Deep to Dwalin.

The Dwarf recoiled at the scent of the flower. "That is a foul stench," he choked. You are right, something evil is afoot here. That smell reminds me of something else - come with me." He stepped over to one of the other Longbeards. With a shock, Lathron realised that, except for Dwalin and Tryggwi, all of the Dwarves were sitting or lying on the ground, clearly very ill. Lathron knelt down. The Dwarf before him was unconscious. Others were awake, but coughing horribly. He felt the Dwarf's head - it was feverish and clammy. Then he caught the smell - the same rotten stink as the flower. He rolled back the Dwarf's sleeve and recoiled. His skin was blackened and rotten. Waves of heat and stench rolled off it, making Lathron's eyes water. Hastily he covered the arm again and turned to Dwalin. "What is causing this?" he asked.

"The Vale is sick," replied the old Dwarf. The Dourhands pollute it with smoke from their forges, and there is an evil chill in the air." He leaned closer, as if afraid the very air might hear him. "You have been in the Silver Deep. Did you see the cave claws?"

"I did," replied Lathron. "They're disgusting. Where do they come from?"

"The depths of the earth. They certainly weren't here in my day. On the day we left for Erebor with Thorin, I heard they had been sighted. That was the day the mine was abandoned when that accursed Cave Troll made all the tunnels unstable... and it was the day they found Skorgrím's body. And there's more - did you see the barghests on your way here?"

"I believe I did. What are they?"

"Men call them barrow-hounds. They only inhabit places of evil death. Have you been to the Barrow Downs?"

"Once, long ago. I have no desire to return."

"As it should be. The foul dogs are everywhere there. They feed on the bones of the fallen, among other things. It is said they are inhabited by fell spirits, as Wights are. That they should be here, in the lands of my forefathers, is grim indeed. As for the sickness, we drew our water from the river to the west. It is the only cause I can think of. It springs from the mountain, so should by rights be fresh and free of pollution, but in light of these troubled times, I am not so sure. Would you go for me to investigate the river for signs of the sickness? I must tend to the sick."

"Gladly." Lathron bowed to Dwalin. "Oh, by the way, while I am here, I would appreciate it if you would refer to me as Elladan. It makes things so much easier when talking to the Dourhands."

Dwalin chuckled. "But of course. Anything to get one up on those traitorous scum. Now, please, hurry. I need to find the source before I can find the cure."

* * *

Hey again all, it's a decade! I should party!

Many creepiness, much caves.

Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

* * *

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


	11. Chapter 11

As Lathron walked among the Dourhands, he felt their eyes upon him. All gazes were suspicious, a few were scared. He smiled to himself behind his scarf, and pulled it up further while walking faster so that his cloak billowed behind him - what good were dark, mysterious clothes if you couldn't intimidate a few people with them? If those people happened to be Dourhands, so much the better.

He left the far side of town and passed several huge pieces of machinery. Dourhand Dwarves clustered around them, and they too eyed him with suspicion. Lathron did not understand the huge, clanking structures. The noise they made was deafening, and they belched out clouds of smoke. What purpose did they have? Why would anyone build something so loud and obtrusive? He was almost convinced that it was the Dourhands' polluting machinery that was causing the sickness. Then he remembered the smell of the afflicted Dwarf's arm - that was not mere industrial pollution.

He came to the river. It was frozen over, except where it passed among a stretch of rapids. There, the soil along the banks had been churned up. As he drew closer, he noticed the smell again. A quick sniff of the soil confirmed it - the water was causing the sickness.

Over the sound of the rushing water, he heard another sound - deep, grunting pants. Slowly, he raised his head. Across the river, a huge brown bear had stopped to drink at the water's edge. It was clear at a glance that the animal, too, was sick. Its ribs protruded, and its fur was falling out in clumps. Instead, its skin was covered in slimy reddish-black sores, akin to those on the arm of the Dwarf. The bear raised its head from its drink, and saw Lathron. Its eyes were dull and bloodshot, but as soon as it saw the Elf, they filled with rage. It charged across the rapids, bellowing. Moving faster than a snake, Lathron drew his bow, aimed and fired. The bear paused, an arrow sprouting from its mouth. Then it reared and bellowed again. Another arrow in its neck seemed only to enrage it further. It was only the third arrow in its eye that felled it, and it crashed to the ground, its claws mere inches from the hunter. He circled the body, examining it. The rotten flesh steamed. Gingerly, he cut off a hunk from its flank with his knife, but as soon as it was separated from the corpse, the flesh began to rot, disintegrating into ever-smaller chunks that fell into the river and dissolved. Lathron took a handful of snow and scrubbed the knife clean thoroughly before replacing it in its sheath. Clearly, the bear's sickness had crazed it - he had given the beast no reason to attack him. He could only hope that Dwalin's Dwarves did not begin to exhibit the same symptoms. He had to find the source of the corruption before it was too late.

To his right, he saw a Dourhand crossing the river with a wheelbarrow via a narrow wooden bridge. He rushed over to him. "Quick," he commanded. "Tell me, where does the river spring from, and how do I get to it?"

The Dwarf looked confused. "The mountain up yonder," he gestured over the river to the north, where cliffs rose high into the sky, scarred by many tiers of quarries. "Ye can get te the spring by the Mirkstone Tunnels."

"Thank you." Lathron ran off across the bridge. As he reached the other side, something made him turn back. The Dwarf he had talked to was deep in conversation with what appeared to be a foreman. As he watched, the Dwarf turned and pointed towards him. The foreman's expression darkened. He gestured to two other Dwarves, both carrying wicked looking mining tools, and they began to advance.

"Halt!" the foreman commanded once he drew closer. "What is your purpose here, Elf?"

"To find the source of the poison in this river. People and animals are dying, thanks to your neglect. A cure must be found."

The Dwarf hefted his pickaxe. "I'm afraid you can go no further. This area is off-limits to outsiders. Now go, before I get angry."

Lathron leaned down until they were nose to nose. "Try and stop me."

"With pleasure." The Dwarf gave a sinister grin. Suddenly, he shoved Lathron hard in the chest, sending him sprawling. The other Dwarves advanced, wielding hammers and other spiked tools. Whatever they were for, they looked fearsome.

Lathron leapt up, drawing his swords with a flourish. One of the Dwarves was dead before he had time to blink. The other backed away, swiping with his tools to keep Lathron back. The foreman drew a whip from his belt and began to lash it. Without warning, he cracked it, and the lash wrapped itself around Lathron's right arm. The pain numbed Lathron's hand so that he dropped his sword, but with the other he cut the whip in two, then stabbed at the remaining worker as he lunged. The Dwarf fell dead, and Lathron advanced on the foreman. He swung his pickaxe, and Lathron parried, sending sparks flying. The Dwarf tried a heavy overhand swing, but Lathron jumped back, and the tool buried itself in the ground. The Dwarf tried to tug it free, and Lathron brought his sword down on his neck, beheading him.

"More secrets," he mused aloud as he unwound the end of the whip from his arm and retrieved his sword. "I've never met people with so many things to hide."

He strode into the quarries, where more Dwarves were hard at work. Huge adult aurochs had been chained to giant minecarts and were hauling away vast cartloads of rubble under the crack of whips. At the top of a series of wooden walkways and stone terraces, he spotted it - a door into the mountainside.

At the same time, the Dourhands spotted him. He raced for the walkways, and the Dwarves raced after him. They poured onto the walkway ahead of him, blocking his route up. Instead, he leapt at the cliff, clawing his way up onto the next ledge. As he wound his way up, he glanced below and saw that his pursuers were far behind.

A thud in front of him made him look back up. Ahead, two figures had jumped onto the walkway, but these were not Dwarves. With grey-red skin, bulbous yellow eyes, long pointed ears and bandy legs, these were Goblins.

The Goblins gnashed their fangs at him and brandished their weapons, but Lathron was running too fast to stop. He dug his heels in and skidded towards them, his swords outstretched. The Goblins' faces twisted in sudden horror as they realised what was about to happen.

Then he was past them. Finally, he stumbled to a halt and turned around. The Goblins stood stiffly for a second, then their heads toppled and fell to the floor. The one nearest the edge of the walkway keeled over the edge, landing heavily among the Dwarves below. Lathron spat after it.

"Mae Govannen Lathron! Na I Valar, cend ha namaer!" - 'by the Valar, it's good to see you!'

In the hollow before the tunnel door stood an Elf, almost identical to Elladan, except his clothing was torn and stained with dark blood.

"It's good to see you too!" Lathron beamed. "We were worried. What have you been doing all this time?"

"Searching for answers," answered Elrohir. "I'm guessing you've been doing the same."

"I have, but quick, there's no time, the Dourhands are coming!"

"No need to worry," Elladan gave a grim chuckle. "They won't try to come back up here any time soon."

Lathron followed him back into the hollow, and saw that it was filled with the bodies of fallen Dwarves, and not only Dwarves - among the dead were several more Goblins. "What are they doing here?" he asked.

"The foul things are crawling all over the place this side of the river. Luckily, it's the only place they're safe to come out in the day because the smoke protects them. It's hard to believe but they seem to be allied with the Dwarves. Elbereth only knows what they're planning.

"You know about the ritual tonight of course?" Lathron asked, "And the sickness?"

"Yes, the valley is sick. The bears, the barghests, the red flowers, it's evil - dark magic. I can only hope it doesn't spread to the Dwarves."

"It already has. Hadn't you heard? Dwalin is here, with a company of Longbeards. They came with the same purpose as us, except they drank water from the river and got sick. I came here to find its source, and maybe find a cure."

Elrohir was shocked. "Then it is far worse than I thought. Myself, I came here because it is where the presence of evil is strongest. Can you feel it?"

Lathron could - a chill in the air, like the wind off a glacier. "What do we do now?"

"I was about to venture in, but was attacked. I had just finished them off when you arrived. Now you have told me about Dwalin's plight, our task becomes all the more urgent. We must venture in and find the source of the corruption. I have seen this sort of thing before, and nature will always try and cleanse itself - purge the poison from its body, as it were. If I am right, at the source of the corruption, we will find this beginning to take place. It is there that we will find the secret to making the cure."

From below, shouts rose up, mingled with the shrieks of Goblins. Elladan looked over the edge. "It appears I was wrong - they are brave enough to come up after all." He turned back to face Lathron. "You go. Leave me here. I will fend them off."

"No, let me!" Lathron protested.

"No. I have already held them off once, I can do it again. Besides, by the sound of it you have achieved more today than I have in two. No, you must venture inside."

"Alright, what am I looking for?" Lathron asked.

"Anything that appears wholesome and green. Follow the sense of evil, and it will lead you to the source." He pulled out a torch, lit it with his tinderbox, and passed it to Lathron, then strode over to the lip of the hollow and drew a pair of thin, curved swords. Lathron heard feet thundering below. "Hurry! There is no time to waste!"

Lathron took a deep breath, and entered the tunnel.

* * *

'Oh no, not another cave,' I hear you say.

But wait, this one's special. It's exciting, and different, and spooky, and very important to the plot. Which is why you'll have to wait for the next chapter. Bwahahaha! I'm so evil. But don't worry, I've decided to make it, and the one after it, (which is number 13, and also very important plot-wise) Halloween specials! Yay! Only 2 weeks until the next installment! Now I must go tie a knot in my hanky so I don't forget...

And yes, today we learnt an important environmental message. Pollution never pays - it makes for a very inhumane death for bears. Shooting them through the face is much kinder, stylish and less messy. Ok, maybe not the messy.

Just in case you were wondering (or not), yes, I am treating Goblins as a separate race from Orcs. Strictly this isn't true, but I'm justifying it to myself by saying that Goblins are the small annoying ones, and Orcs are the big annoying ones.

Oh, and a plea for help, if anyone reading this happens to be an expert on Sindarin grammar, could you let me know if I got the translation above right? In fact, if anyone ever spots something wrong with my Elvish (or indeed my English, heaven forbid...) please don't hesitate to jump on it and tell me off.

Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.

* * *

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.


End file.
